Why the Fish Never Leaves the Water
by Hermit Crab 22.02.2006, changed 28.02.2006

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We take the unity of the human family and divide it into distinct camps with very drastic differences in their preferred use of symbols to portray the same substance. And of course it doesn't stop there—each camp, while agreeing on the most basic symbols, will also divide into subcamps, and these into sub-subcamps, until you have new splinter camps forming over disagreement about some of the most microscopic symbolic minutia you could imagine. This scenario in and of itself is not a problem—it's what makes the smorgasbord so rich with such diverse flavors. Those within each camp who realize this can look to neighbors in other camps and feel a deep affinity because underneath the symbolic differences the substantial unity is ever present.

There only arises a problem when these symbolic differences are mistaken for substantial differences; now there is no unity, the fissures between subcamps run deeper than the surfaces, and in the case of the larger "base camps," all the way to the core of our existence, to the point where even our true God wars with another false god. This may be all just good theater from God's perspective— drama for drama's sake —but for the actors who take the surface of life and all of its divisions seriously, there is little consolation other than the belief that they are right and everyone else has it wrong. At the extreme end of attachment to the symbols and identity only with one's particular campsite (such as we often see in Jewish, Islamic and Christian fundamentalists) one can almost seem to lose touch with the substance of God in the clamor to validate the symbols.

Of course, the idea that anyone can be out of touch with the substance of God is an abstraction and an illusion unto itself. One can certainly be out of touch with the locally popular symbols, or all symbols in some cases, but it is impossible to disconnect from the substance of the Eternal and Omnipresent One. For a person to think this, is to give in to a uniquely human neurosis that is caused by the very use of symbols itself.

Consider, if you will, a fish: it is born in the water, and spends its entire life in the water. It doesn't have a "no water" experience in its memory to which it can draw a contrast; consequently it probably does not "see" the water that forms the base of its entire surroundings, nor would it be inclined to give thought to the fact that it is continuously surrounded by water (similarly, other than coal miners and avid spelunkers, we who dwell on the earth's surface live almost our entire lives within the sky, and we are inclined to think just as little about that). Likewise, no one has to teach the fish how to swim, or how to use its gills to draw oxygen from the water. Nothing about this fish's watery existence feels foreign to it, and if you asked the fish where it's home is or where its heaven is, if the fish could speak, I am certain it would say something like, "Well, right here, of course."

Are we all together on this? Does it all make sense—except for the talking fish?

OK, now dig this: when a human being feels separate from or out of touch with the substance of the Divine One/God, this is similar to our little fish friend one day just going into a state of panic and thinking, "Hey, where's the water?? I don't see any water!! How am I going to swim? How am I going to breathe? Oh no I'm going to die!!!" Silly little fish, we think, as we watch it thrash about in the throes of anxiety in its aquarium: the water is all around him!

This must be what we look like from the perspective of God, or of a person who has realized his/her union with the infinite, eternal, Divine One.

The fish, in this illustration, never leaves the water, but you could say that it thinks itself out of the water. This is what we do with the Divine Reality that we in the West tend to call "God:" we think ourselves out of God.

A real fish, of course, would never do such a thing. We have to give it the mental capacity to create verbal concepts and abstractions, attaching symbolic meaning to its perceptions, in order to let it represent a human being in this illustration. The technique of anthropomorphism has always been used by the storytellers of the world to convey meaningful ideas about the unique human existence and our perceptions, which unlike those of the fish (as far as we can tell) are entirely symbol-based. Religion provides not just an example of this practice as a storytelling craft, but probably the best example, because the subjects it discusses cannot be addressed at all without the use of symbols. One can describe a person or a finite object without using its name, or point at it without using words at all. But one cannot describe God without using personifying symbols, nor can one point at God without creating confusion. ("You're saying this chair is God? That guy over there in the white robe is God?")

So what is our personified fish telling us in this illustration? If we can stop thinking ourselves out of God, we will realize that the union with the Divine One that we crave is already here. The fish never leaves the water. No magnitude or amount of sin can sever or corrupt this union—except in your own mind. The fish never leaves the water. There is nothing you must say or do or achieve or attain to create this union that existed before you were born, and try as you might— and God knows you will —there is no way you can undo yourself from God''s ever-present, all-encompassing embrace—except in your own mind.

The fish never leaves the water.

[Editor's Note: This article is based on a longer piece which appears on the Fish Out Of Water Project (FOOW Manifesto). It is published here with the author's permission. The images are also borrowed from www.foow.org which credits the painting to Corinne Vonaesch (www.c-vonaesch.ch) and the cartoon to James True (www.jtrue.com).]